


A Little Bit of Rain

by Casia_sage



Series: Snufmin Week 2019 [2]
Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime 1990)
Genre: Acceptance, Angst, Autistic Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Bad Communication, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Misunderstandings, Other, Selectively Mute Snufkin, Storms, bc Snufkin's having a meltdown the whole time and Moomin is being sad :(, he goes non-verbal, not as heavy a prose as last time, pretty OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 01:50:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19263541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casia_sage/pseuds/Casia_sage
Summary: Snufmin Appreciation Day 2 -HomeWhen a storm leaves Snufkin stuck inside Moominhouse, he can't help but feel trapped and Moomin can't help but feel unwanted. Luckily Moominmamma's there to save the day once again.Snufkin contemplates what home means to him and Moomin learns how to love unselfishly.





	A Little Bit of Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So I'm really very unhappy with how this turned out, but I figured I'd post it anyway. I actually originally wrote a different thing for this prompt, but I got carried away and am now turning it into a multi-chapter fic that I should be posting soon. Anywho, I'm just now getting around to posting these on AO3 so bear with me

The skies are dark, inky and menacious, rumbling and shaking. Lightning flashes, like cracks in the sky, letting bright, silver light shine through the sable blackness. There are no stars in the sky, just rain and wind and darkness. It’s cold out, but not the same way the winter is. It’s cold  in a way that only comes with summer showers; the winter is a heavy, aching coldness that is all around you, soaking into your bones, but this coldness is sharp and bright and falls with every drop of rain, every gust of wind, but it doesn’t hang in the air, doesn’t envelope his body.

The rain is leaking through Snufkin’s old, worn, canvas tent, soaking his clothes, letting the cold, boisterous wind in. It’s still early summer, so thunderstorms aren’t too surprising, but they’re not usually this bad in Moominvalley, never so sharp, so cold, and they certainly don't usually last this long. It’s been storming all day, but in the last hour or so it’s gotten _bad--_ the wind is strong and stinging, the rain is falling heavily in big drops, big enough and fast enough to hurt as it hits your skin.

 

He’s sitting in his tent, shivering desperately into his thin, damp blanket and rummaging through his bag for any food that doesn’t need to be cooked when he hears the faint sound of his name being called. _Oh dear._ He unzips his tent, poking his head out and instantly wincing as the rain pellets his face. Through a thick sheet of rain he can see a large, white figure coming towards him. _Moomintroll,_ he thinks. But no, as the figure gets closer, he can see a familiar red-striped apron. It’s Moomminmamma, holding two umbrellas above her head as she hurriedly approaches his tent. He doesn’t have time to address his disappointment that it’s not Moomin (or what that might _mean)._

 

“Moominmamma!” he calls. “What’re you doing out here?”

 

She finally reaches his tent and bends down in order to be level with him. “I could ask you the same question, dear,” she says, holding out the umbrella to him. He stares at it, pondering it for a moment before cautiously taking it from her. “It’s dangerous out here, Snufkin. You should have come by; you know that you’re always welcome.”

 

He _does_ know that. And he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of going to Moominhouse and waiting out the storm, but he really didn’t want to intrude, no matter how many times the Moomin family _insisted_ that he never was. And his dear Moomin tended to fuss over him so much in situations like this. It was best to wait out the storm in his tent, he had decided, even if it was damp and cold, and he had no food that didn’t require a fire. And he certainly didn’t expect Moominmamma to come out in the middle of the storm like this. “Don’t tell me that you came all the way out here to give me an umbrella, Moominmamma.”

 

“Of course not, Snufkin,” she says gently. “I’m here to take you back to the house.”

 

Snufkin’s hands--shining white in the dim light, knuckles blue-tinged from the cold--grip the brim of his hat. “Oh. Please, Moominmamma, I couldn’t possi-”

 

“Nonsense, Snufkin,” she interrupts. “I’m afraid you don’t have much choice, dear. It’s too dangerous to be outside right now. So, really, dear, I must insist.”

 

Knowing that she could be even more stubborn than Moomintroll, he gives her a little nod and reluctantly agrees, standing and zipping up his tent. He holds the wide, white umbrella above his head and tries to stop his hands from shaking. ( _You don’t always have to be strong,_ his mind offers. _Yes, I do._ His mind argues,   _Not around them._ The deep ache in his throat, the heaviness in his ribcage that somehow feels like emptiness tells him, _I have to, I have to, I have to)._ His grip on the umbrella tightens, his knuckles go milk-white.

 

* * *

  
  


“Let's get you a nice warm drink,” is the first thing Moominmamma says when they get to Moominhouse. “Tea or coffee, dear?”

 

Snufkin’s distracted for a moment as he looks around the house, takes in the startling comfort of it all, how it never seems to change, not really. It’s always a cozy, gentle constant in his life, in the lives of many. But he’s a traveler, he shouldn’t find comfort in familiarity. He should need change. So why does he feel like crying in the middle of the kitchen? “Coffee, please,” he says.

 

Moomintroll dashes into the kitchen in that endearing, overexcited way he does. “Snufkin! I’m so glad that you’re here!” He holds up a sweater, cabled and eggshell-colored. “I found this for you. I figured it’d be warm,” he says.

 

“Thank you, Moomintroll,” Snufkin says sincerely, tugging at the brim of his hat. He sets the closed umbrella onto the counter and gingerly takes the sweater. He slips off his hat and his wet coat, unintentionally sinking into himself, suddenly feeling very exposed in only his trousers and undershirt. He quickly slips the sweater over his head; it’s too big, but it’s warm and cozy and it smells of fresh grass and salt and tea leaves. It smells of _Moomintroll,_ and he finds himself nestling his cheek up against the warm shoulder of it.

 

Moominmamma gestures to the hat and coat that lie on the kitchen table. “I’ll dry those for you, darling,” she says, and she finishes stirring the steaming mug. “Here.” She hands Snufkin the mug and the contrast in temperature instantly makes his cold hands tingle upon contact. He eagerly clutches it in both hands, holds it close to his face, lets the steam warm him.

 

“I made some bread and it just needs to cool. Snufkin, are you hungry?” Mamma asks, lifting a bread pan out of the oven with mitten-covered paws.

 

“Oh-” he begins, but is then rudely interrupted by his stomach growling loudly. His face goes red with embarrassment and he suddenly finds himself wishing that he had his hat to hide his face in.

 

Moomin giggles and Moominmamma just smiles kindly. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

 

* * *

  


Snufkin drinks his coffee and eats the warm, buttered bread as he sits on the floor next to Moomintroll, Listening to Moominpappa tell stories, and no one asks Snufkin to tell them any of his from over the winter, which is somewhat of a relief; as much as he loves telling stories, there’s something freeing about having a whole life that only he knows about (that and he can instead focus on the way the firelight makes Moomin’s white fur glow golden-orange, illuminating his form, tracing the soft outline of his body, turning his dark shadow into gold).

 

When they’re ready to go to sleep, Moomin offers (insists) to let Snufkin share his bed. They’ve done this before when they were younger, and now the bed is a too-small mess of lanky limbs and broader shoulders, but Moomin falls asleep with his stomach against Snufkin’s back, and he squeezes his eyes shut tight at the feeling of Moomin’s body pressed against his own. He shivers, though he’s not cold.

 

He _almost_ forgets about the lightning, full of power, but spilling through the sky like a lonely stream, outside the bedroom window.

 

* * *

  
  


It takes three days for the rain to stop. Three days of stories and fresh baked sweets. Three days of hot tea and playing his mouth organ for them like a caged songbird. Three days. Three days and he’s crawling out of his skin (he chews at the skin on his knuckles like if he gets a good tear, he can slip right out of this fleshy prison). He’s not a caged bird, though. He’s not playing for their amusement, up on a little pedestal. He feels guilty for thinking that. They had been nothing but kind, like they always are. Invited him into their house to escape the storm, fed him and gave him a place to sleep until the sky stopped shaking. And it had been lovely, really. He had gotten to spend so much time with Moomintroll, who was such a soft and splendid Moomin. He treasured their time together, he really did. He had counted each one of his Moomin’s smiles (those real, precious, amiable smiles) over the span of those three days (12 total), but eventually the tallymarks started to take the form of bite marks on the skin of his hands. By the third day, he stops talking. His head is pounding, full of thoughts and ideas, but they don’t go past his lips. It’s like everything around him is a feeling, a taste, a color, but the words are lost in his head. Everything in the world is a _feeling_ not a set of words. And everyone around him isn’t making sense--it’s too fast, he can’t process their words; he hears them, but the context is lost along the way. He _could_ speak, he thinks. Noise is waiting patiently at the top of his throat, but his mind won’t supply the words to make it more than just that: noise. Moomin seems upset by this. He doesn’t understand why Snufkin won’t speak to him, why he only sits on the bench by the window, tapping his fist hard against his leg to the beat of the song that all of the birds are singing outside.

 

First thing in the morning on the fourth day, Snufkin grabs his coat and hat and leaves without saying anything. Moomin follows him outside. The sun is shining brightly, eliminating any residual water from the storm. Obviously having appreciated the rain, the plant life is green and lush, the birds are singing happily in the overgrown trees, fish jump from the stream. The whole valley seems to be bursting with life. Moomin looks at Snufkin crossing the bridge, notices how well he seems to fit into the picture, all greens and reds and pinks. Moomin can’t help but feel that maybe this really _is_ where Snufkin belongs afterall, and he’s suddenly hit with a crushing wave of guilt, though he’s not sure why. He doesn’t follow Snufkin. He lets him walk away by himself, because part of Moomin knows that being held up in his house was hard for Snufkin, but he can’t get himself to understand _why_ , and despite himself, Moomin feels his chest fill up with something that feels a lot like anger. Why couldn’t his bestfriend stand being around him for too long? He goes to see if Sniff and Snorkmaiden want to play, partially because he wants to and partially because apparently _Snufkin doesn’t._

 

By midday Snufkin has caught two decent-sized fish and is currently playing a new song to the sound of the stream’s current, but it’s definitely not his best. He's too distracted. He can’t stop thinking about winter. _But it’s not winter yet_ , he tries to remind himself. _It’s still early summer._ He keeps on thinking about it, but that’s not what he’s worried about; he doesn’t think about where to go during the winter, doesn’t wonder what he’ll do, he thinks about when he should start coming back to Moominvalley, how long it will take. When did his winter travels become a task, something to get through? An obstacle on his way back to Moominvalley. He feels disgusted with himself. He feels sick. How did he allow his mind to be shaped this way? To go against his very own nature!

 

He packs up his tent, gets fresh water from the stream and starts walking. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but it doesn’t really matter. He almost feels guilty for not leaving Moomin a note or something, but he shouldn’t have to. He can go wherever he wants whenever he wants and he doesn’t have to tell _anyone._ That hasn’t changed, and it never will.

 

He walks through the forest, listens to the birds chatter ( _the gossipy little things),_ plays his mouth organ for a while, but mostly he just _walks._ He sets up his tent by a tree that is inhabited by a very nice family of hedgehogs whom he shares his fish with. The next day, he picks some mushrooms, finds some pretty, red flowers and puts them on his hat, and he walks and walks and for the first time in a while, he feels completely content.

  


* * *

 

It’s been two days since Snufkin and his camp had disappeared, and Moomin knew that it was pointless to worry about him, so instead he’d spent the past two days in a constant state of  uncharacteristic anger. He wasn’t really sure what he was mad for; not being told that Snufkin was leaving? Not knowing if he was coming back? How Snufkin had treated him rather unfairly and rudely after he had let him stay in his home? Snufkin’s _nature?_ Snufkin himself? It was far too tiring to even figure out what exactly he was angry about, so he just stayed mad.

 

“What’s the matter, dear?” Moominmamma says, rolling out dough on the flour-dusted counter.

 

He lies, “nothing,” and Mamma blinks at him, awaiting a truthful answer. “Snufkin,” he sighs.

 

She stops what she’s doing to sit next to him at the table, eyes glittering with a mix of sympathy and pity. “What about him, my little Moomintroll?”

 

Moomin sighs and looks up at his mother, looking someone in the eyes for the first time in three days (the last eyes he remembers seeing are like honey, summer sunshine, the gentle caress of the flickering light of his campfire), and he feels his own flood with tears.“I just thought that he cared about me. And I feel so happy whenever he comes back to me, but then he _always leaves again._ He’s never going to stay, is he, Mamma?”

 

“Now dear,” she says, wiping the tears from his eyes with the tenderness of which only a mother is capable. “You can’t be selfish with love. He spends most of the year here. Can you really ask him to stay for those winter months, too? He comes back in the spring and stays through the summer and autumn for _you._ Asking him to stay, asking him to take you with him? It’s asking too much of him. I know that it’s only because you love him so, Moomintroll, but you cannot be selfish with him. His need for freedom is a part of him and it always will be. So, you need to decide: can you really love all of him? Or do you simply love the idea of him?” She stands up and continues kneading the dough. Moomin sniffles. And then he hears the sound of a lovely song echoing through the valley. Snufkin.

 

* * *

  
  
When Snufkin returns to Moominvalley, his freedom isn’t left behind in the forest. Instead, he tucks it in his pocket and smiles broadly. Oh, how beautiful Moominvalley is, how beautiful the creatures that inhabit it are, and how lovely this world is. How lucky he is to be able to see it, summer or winter, alone or not, because with nature all around him, how can he really ever be lonely?

 

“Snufkin!” he hears, and he already knows who it is before he turns around.

 

Moomin is running towards him excitedly, and what a sight it is; lovely Moomintroll swathed in the bright light of the sun, the world around him buzzing and humming with life and summer, red flowers covering that open green field by the bridge.

 

Moomin looks so very happy to see him, but snufkin can’t help but feel a little bad; Moomin had seemed so upset before, and he’s sure that his unplanned trip hadn’t gone unnoticed. Perhaps this was why so many adventurers preferred to always be alone, so when they left again, no one would be sad. But how terrible would it be to have no one in the world who would miss him. Perhaps they are lucky to have something that hurts so badly when it is gone. “Listen, Moomintroll, I’ve been thinking a lot over these past few days.”

 

“No, I understand, Snufkin. It’s okay,” he says, interrupting. “I know that you need to be alone sometimes, and that’s okay! Really! I’m sorry if I get too clingy, but us Moomins are such homely creatures, and sometimes I forget that you aren’t.”

 

Snufkin only smiles fondly. “Oh, Moomintroll,” he says. “I’ve thought for so very long that I don’t have a home, that I don’t _want_ one. But if I have learned anything recently, it’s that a home isn’t something that restricts you or cages you or holds you back. Home doesn’t even have to be a house. A home is somewhere that you can always come back to when you’re tired, somewhere that’ll always be there for you when you need it. Home is safety and comfort, something you can always trust. Moominvalley is my home, Moominhouse is. And so are all of you. It shouldn’t work and it shouldn’t fit, but...somehow you’ve all become a home and a family to the familyless vagabond. Now that’s something, isn’t it?”

 

“Oh, Snufkin,” Moomin weeps.

 

Snufkin presses the palms of his hands against Moomin’s white cheeks. “I know that you can’t understand my needing to be alone, Moomin, but...just know that I’ll always come back to you.”

 

“You’re right. I don’t understand, but I don’t need to. I love you, Snufkin,” he says so sincerely and gently that it melts the Mumrik’s little heart. “I love all of you, not just the parts that make sense.”

 

“I love you, too, Moomin,” he says, and then takes Moomintroll’s paw in his own. “Now I must tell you about these splendid creatures I met on my travels…”

 

He lets the vagabond guide him through the green valley, listening to him talk--blooming, thrumming with new ideas, with fresh starts. Perhaps it does take a little bit of rain in order to grow.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Tell me what you think!


End file.
